


thousand ways to leave this place

by Lexie



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-17
Updated: 2010-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-13 06:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexie/pseuds/Lexie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt has to figure out how life works, now that he's a student at Dalton Academy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	thousand ways to leave this place

**Author's Note:**

> I took just about every spoiler that we knew of, right after "Never Been Kissed" aired, and ran like hell with it; I've been jossed to hell and back by 2x07 through 2x10, so this is technically an AU now. Title is from "Hold Hands and Fight" by the Rosebuds. Extra notes on geography: Dalton Academy was stated as being in Westerville, Ohio, which is about two hours from Lima and 20 minutes from Columbus.

Dalton Academy looks and feels like something out of a Merchant Ivory movie, possibly circa 1995.

It's old and imposing and everything looks like it belongs in either a castle or an enormous mansion in the English countryside. It's utterly absurd, especially given that they're in Westerville, Ohio. Kurt would be laughing at how ridiculous this feels if he wasn't so nervous.

Standing at the foot of the front steps, a stream of boys in overcoats thrown over identical uniforms moving around him, Kurt stares up at the front entrance. DALTON ACADEMY is etched into stone over the big double doors. No one is giving him a second glance, probably because he looks like he fits in. He is wearing his favorite Canali wool coat; it's comfortingly heavy and familiar, given the rest of the ensemble. Gray trousers, a white button-up, a striped tie, and that navy blazer with the terrible red piping and obscenely large Dalton coat of arms -- all heavily starched and brand new. It's not the most stylish outfit he has ever worn, not by a long shot. The school even supplied matching pairs of black dress socks and a pair of dress shoes, which are pinching his feet, and Kurt again resolves to find out if he can at least wear his own black loafers.

Not for the first time in the last three days, he wonders if transferring was really the right thing to do.

Kurt takes a deep breath, clutches the strap of his bag (previously-owned leather Roberto Cavalli; it's the pride of his collection and has survived many a dumpster toss) like a lifeline, and with all the confidence and panache he can muster, he holds his head high and follows the outpouring of students up the steps and into the front hall. It's even more overwhelming inside. Kurt has been here more than once, spying or visiting Blaine or going through paperwork and signing up for classes with his dad, but this is the first time he's been alone, and the first time he has witnessed the early morning crush just before classes start. He pushes his way through to the staircase and climbs to the second story, trying not to stare at the glass rotunda ceiling. He gets a little jostled in the crowds, somebody brushing against his shoulder or whacking their leg against his bag, but here's the difference: the big guy whose haircut can't possibly meet the dress code, who smacks into Kurt while they're going in opposite directions on the stairs -- he says a genuine-sounding, "Hey, sorry, man" and he continues on his way.

Kurt stares after him for a second or two before remembering that he's still on the staircase and there are people behind him; he takes the last few steps and pauses before getting his bearings. His locker is down the hall to the right. He slips through the knot of guys who are hanging around a bulletin board, signing up for something; nobody drives an elbow into his kidneys or tries to trip him.

It takes two tries to get the combination; muscle memory takes over, the first time, and he thumbs in the numbers that he used at McKinley. When he gets it right and the door swings open, his locker is depressingly bare. Kurt ignores it and opens his bag, loading in textbooks and notebooks and binders and then hanging his coat. Finally, reluctant, he slowly pulls his sunglasses off his nose and folds them neatly, placing them on the top shelf. He's glad he hasn't put a mirror in this locker yet. He did his best with cover-up, but even the most adroitly applied foundation can't hide the way that his eye has swollen; all he managed to do was slightly dull the ugly black-purple-yellow color that surrounds it.

He doesn't need to check the schedule folded inside his inner coat pocket, close to his chest. He memorized it last night, after his dad helped him finish moving his stuff and reluctantly left him in the quiet dorm room. He doesn't have a roommate; since there aren't exactly a lot of guys transferring in the middle of a quarter -- Kurt got the definite impression that it's not normally allowed and that his situation allowed for a rare exception -- he wound up placed in an empty double. He'd done what he could with only a few hours and what was essentially a big white box, putting up art prints and scarves, but it had still taken several long seconds to remember where he was after waking up this morning.

It doesn't feel real; not yet. But he has chemistry first, so he keeps _Advanced Chemistry: An Enquiry-Based Approach_ in his bag and he grabs a binder to go with it, he tucks his carefully sculpted hair back, and he shuts his locker. The guys clustered around the bulletin board have dispersed, so Kurt slows then stops to see what they were looking at. The board is plastered with advertisements for various clubs and extracurricular activities. It looks like they were signing up for basketball tryouts. There's a history club, Spanish club, French club, Mandarin club, yearbook committee, math competition team, something dedicated to volunteering, National Honor Society, and about 14 gazillion other options, including more sports than he had realized existed.

There doesn't seem to be an abstinence club, Kurt notes with some amusement. And some of these options actually sound interesting. No one has even defaced the sign-up sheet for the debate team or turned 'jazz band' into 'jizz band.'

Then he notices one more nondescript flyer. It's simply laid out, with no colorful borders or lines for students to sign their names. It just lists a classroom, a day (Wednesdays), and a time, and it says 'Gay-Straight Alliance. All are welcome.'

Kurt is definitely not in William McKinley High School anymore.

He is still staring at the board, stunned, when a voice from behind him says, "Hey." Kurt starts and spins around, binder clutched close to his chest and his free hand on his bag.

"Whoa," says Blaine, one hand raised, his palm to Kurt; he's smiling, broad and easy. "Sorry; I didn't m--" He stops short, a shadow crossing over his expression, and Kurt suddenly feels very self-conscious again. Blaine knows the details of what happened last Thursday and he helped move some of Kurt's things last night, but he hasn't actually seen Kurt in full daylight since the incident at McKinley. Kurt tightens his hand on the strap of his bag.

"Is it _that_ dramatic?" he asks, a tense joke.

Blaine's hand lifts like he's going to touch Kurt's face; Kurt's heart leaps in his chest -- and then Blaine lowers his arm again. "They really hit you," he says, and Kurt cannot handle that tone of voice.

"No," Kurt says with as much light sarcasm as he can, shifting his bag higher on his shoulder and determinedly not wincing at the bruise that that twinges. "I decided to uproot my entire life because Azimio gave me a light tap to say hello." He wills Blaine to remember that they've talked about this and Kurt has already told him that he is allowed to take _none_ of the blame for this; that Azimio and Karofsky were bullies (and Karofsky was a pathetic closeted one at that) long before Blaine advised Kurt to stand up for himself. He cannot handle a conversation like that again. Not this morning, when his nerves are already on edge.

Blaine, thankfully, straightens his shoulders and clears his throat; he's still looking at Kurt with concern, but he seems less taken aback by the sight of him. It's a start. "It's barely noticeable," he says, which is enough to make Kurt glance down and laugh, at least. "Now, come on." When Kurt looks up again, Blaine is smiling at him. "What're your classes?"

Kurt reaches inside his blazer. "I'm supposed to be going to chemistry, with a Mr. Rookwood," he says, pulling out the folded sheet of paper and passing it to Blaine.

"Right, right," Blaine says absently, glancing over the list of classes. "He's a pretty okay guy." He glances up at Kurt and smiles again, wry. "You know, for a teacher." He offers the schedule to Kurt, who tucks it back inside his blazer. "I'm headed to the science wing, too; I'll walk you down there."

Kurt came to Dalton determined to make it on his own, without putting his entire fate in the hands of his entirely unexpected friendship with a boy who -- he has discovered on earlier visits -- seems to be one of the most popular guys in the school, but the rush of gratitude and relief that he feels at the offer is overwhelming. He decides that he can still be self-reliant and have his own life if Blaine shows him where the classroom is. "Okay," he says, and he falls into step alongside Blaine.

"I can give you the full guided tour later, if you want," Blaine says conversationally, grinning and nodding to a guy who calls his name as they pass. "Not that there's _that_ much to see; Dalton's pretty small compared to McKinley."

"A tour would be nice," Kurt says, glancing over at him. Blaine is leading him down the most crowded hall yet, though students are ducking into each of the classroom doors that they pass. "It seems to have a disproportionate number of confusingly twisted hallways. I'm half expecting secret passages."

Blaine laughs, and something in Kurt's chest warms. "You'll have to go to the library and tilt the right book to find those."

"You _are_ joking, right?" Kurt asks warily, and Blaine only grins and shrugs; _wouldn't you like to know?_ says his expression. Watching Blaine means that Kurt isn't entirely watching where he's going; Blaine suddenly grabs Kurt's nearer elbow to steer him around someone who has bent down to tie his shoe, and then he just ... doesn't move away again. They're walking down the hall with Blaine's hand warm on Kurt's arm and nobody is giving them even a second look.

Kurt wonders, not for the first time, if he's dreaming.

Blaine drops him off outside room 201 with a promise that he'll see him at lunch, and then he's gone, waving with one hand and flipping open his cell phone with the other. Kurt watches him go for several seconds, and then he turns, squares his shoulders, and walks into the classroom. He introduces himself as a transfer student to the teacher who seems to be taking a last look at the lesson plan on the computer; Mr. Rookwood has a seriously impressive head of Einstein hair. He takes Kurt's introduction and appearance in stride, barely even glancing at him, and tells him to take a seat and that they can discuss catching him up to the curriculum after class. When Kurt glances at the rest of the classroom, he finds that it's full of boys in uniform, several of whom are eyeing him with varying levels of interest and confusion. Most of them, though, are sitting on desks or standing around and laughing and talking or throwing wadded up paper balls at each other.

"Kurt!" somebody calls, and Kurt starts. "Hey, Kurt!" Wes from the Warblers is flagging him down from the back row, beckoning him in and pointing to the empty desk in front of his. Kurt slowly walks over, and Wes tells him, "We saved you a seat."

"How did you--?" he asks, setting his binder down on the desk, and staring at Wes and the vaguely familiar boy sitting beside him.

"Blaine just texted and said you're in this block," Wes explains. "You met Jonathan, right? He's one of our tenors. He's Blaine's roommate."

"Hey," says the guy sitting beside him, as the bell rings to signal the start of class. "Quality shiner."

Startled, Kurt snorts.

Over the course of the day, he finds a previously-warned-of-Kurt's-arrival Warbler or friend of Blaine's in several more of his classes.

* * *

"What's it like?" Mercedes asks that night on Skype, with Tina hanging over her shoulder.

The corners of Kurt's mouth rise, just a little. "It's -- different," he decides.

Mercedes shoots him a tremendously unimpressed look. " _What_ ," she asks, "is that supposed to mean?"

It means that no one shoved him and he knew at least one person in half of his classes and strangers kept introducing themselves, even independent of Blaine's machinations, and Kurt shared his book with a guy in his French class who has already asked for help with verb conjugations, and he ate lunch at a full table and people did stare at him in the halls but only because he's the new kid with an eye that looks like a tie-dyed baseball.

"The uniform is a definite negative, but otherwise, I think I like it." At that response, Mercedes looks like she is ruthlessly forcing herself to be happy for him; Tina does a worse job of hiding her mixed emotions and not looking miserable. Kurt's chest tightens up. He adds, "So far. I reserve the right to change my mind."

There's the creak and bang of a door opening and closing on Mercedes and Tina's end of the connection, and then Quinn swings into view, still wearing her hideous polyester blend of a Cheerios uniform. "Is that Kurt?" she asks, and then she glances at the screen and sees that it is, in fact, Kurt. He knows that Quinn still sometimes goes over to Mercedes's house, despite the fact that the friendship isn't exactly a boost to her social position; the Joneses regard her and Kurt as fifth and sixth members of the family. But it's still a surprise to see her.

"Hi Hummel," Quinn says. "How're all the boys?"

"Cute and surprisingly respectful," he says, which gets the reaction he wants: Mercedes groans and Quinn laughs.

"Clearly, the three of _us_ are at the wrong school," says Quinn, leaning comfortably on Mercedes's desk.

Kurt debates it for a couple of seconds, and then he asks, "How's Sam's eye?" Someone being hurt because he stood up for Kurt had been one of the worst-feeling parts of the entire mess that had sent Kurt over the edge and into the guidance office at Dalton.

The set of Quinn's bare shoulders tenses and her mouth sets into a firm line. "Healing," she says stiffly. "From the looks of it in glee rehearsals." AKA she isn't seeing him _outside_ of glee rehearsals.

"Well," says Kurt, " _my_ interest is officially piqued," and Quinn rolls her eyes and mutters something about him being a gossipy bitch.

"You're missing some pretty impressive relationship drama here," Tina tells him.

Quinn sniffs, and in the haughty way, not the going-to-cry way. "I don't," she says delicately, "want to talk about it."

Behind Quinn's back, Tina mimes that she will tell Kurt all about it later. At least, that's what he thinks she's doing. Someone shouts something indistinct, and the three girls glance at each other. "Coming!" Mercedes hollers back. She says to Tina and Quinn: "You guys go ahead; I'll be down in a sec."

"Dinner," Tina tells Kurt as she stands up, answering his eyebrows-furrowed expression. "Talk to you later, Kurt."

"Bye, Kurt," says Quinn. "Enjoy all those cute boys."

He snorts softly and tells them goodbye, and then they have shut the door and it is just him and Mercedes. They regard each other, and she finally asks him, "You really like it there? For real?"

He considers it for several long seconds, then nods. "It's ... easier," he admits. "I can focus on school and my own life, instead of what some cretin with a negative-4.0 GPA might do."

"Good," says Mercedes fiercely.

He wiggles his fingers at the camera; she brightens and does the same on her end, and then, in unison, they sweep their bangs back. "Tell your mom I said hi," Kurt says.

"I will," Mercedes promises, pushing her chair back from her desk. "Miss you, white boy."

Kurt smiles to cover the fact that his eyes are suddenly prickling. "I miss you, too," he says, and he shuts the laptop after Mercedes's screen goes black.

Which is precisely when somebody lightly raps on his door. Kurt whirls around and can see half a broad shoulder through the gap of several inches that he left the door open. When he crosses to it and opens all the way, he finds a tall redhaired boy who's still wearing half his uniform -- tie untied, sleeves rolled up, and jacket missing -- standing in the hallway.

"Sorry," says the guy, awkward, and even more so after he obviously notices the fact that Kurt's eyes are red; "I didn't mean to eavesdrop or anything, it's just you were _just_ finishing when I came to the door."

"No," says Kurt, a little breathlessly. "It's okay."

"Damian," says the stranger, offering his hand. "I live in 13B, down the hall," he gestures vaguely over his shoulder; "you'll be able to recognize it by the smell of the dirty socks my roommate leaves all over the place."

Kurt smiles faintly and shakes his hand. "I'm Kurt," he says, "I just transferred here, and my socks are generally clean."

"Cool," says Damian, half-grinning at Kurt's response. "Listen, I heard you singing earlier and I just wanted to let you know; some of us watch _American Idol_ in the commons on Tuesday nights, so if you want to c--"

"Yes," says Kurt fervently.

* * *

On Wednesday, Kurt finds himself swaying in the front row between a stranger and one of the Warblers whose name he can't recall, and singing a chorale in Italian. Chorus is an elective class at Dalton, and the teacher had been thrilled to hear that he was getting a countertenor with a range that went up to a high F. Most of the Warblers are scattered throughout the risers, including Blaine, but there are 30 or 40 other boys as well. Kurt has never had his voice contribute to such a big, unified sound. It's a strangely humbling feeling; less so when the teacher asks to hear the tenors sing their part alone and most of the other guys are tripping over the Italian, so Kurt's voice soars above the jumbled mess.

Mr. Clifton pulls him aside after the bell rings and asks if he has any performance experience, and he looks like he is on the verge of rubbing his hands together with excitement when Kurt admits that he was an anchor member of the glee club at his old school. It turns out that Mr. Clifton is the adviser to the Warblers, and he wants Kurt to come in for an audition with the group.

Kurt says that he'll think about it.

* * *

 _library?_ asks Blaine's latest text that afternoon, and Kurt smiles at it for several seconds before putting his fingers to iPhone touchpad.

 _can't, somewhere to be,_ he texts back.

Blaine's response is almost immediate, as Kurt pauses outside the classroom door. _mysterious! call if you want to hang out after you're not somewhere anymore._

He laughs a little bit, just to himself, and he texts back one letter ( _k_ ) before he tucks his phone into his blazer pocket. He stares at the sign for room 188 for about 30 seconds before he finally opens the door in one quick movement, so he can't change his mind.

Kurt has been at Dalton for three days, but like Blaine said, it's not that big of a school; some of the faces that turn toward him as he closes the door behind him already look familiar. They've scattered throughout the classroom; quite a few have already taken off their jackets or are breaking the dress code in various ways. One guy has his legs up on the desk that he's sitting at. There's a plate of cookies on the teacher's desk at the front.

The woman behind that desk is actually Kurt's English teacher; the one who reminded him a little bit of Ms. Pillsbury, mostly because she speaks in a soft voice and has very large eyes. She seemed nice yesterday, even if she dressed like she did all her shopping at a Filene's Basement going out of business sale. "Kurt, hi," she says.

"Hi," Kurt says, holding his bag's strap tightly. "Is -- this the GSA?"

"Yes, it is," says Mrs. Haggerty. "Come on in; take a seat." She turns her attention to the classroom full of boys, who look like as big of a representative sample of the population as Dalton's student body does in general. A couple of them in particular -- faux-hawk, he's looking at you -- set his gaydar off immediately, but this is a gay- _straight_ alliance, and Kurt's gaydar has been known to be tragically inaccurate before. "Guys, this is Kurt; he just transferred here from Lima. Can somebody catch him up on what we're working on?"

He sits down beside a guy who he recognizes from his math class. In the front of the room, there's somebody writing down ideas on the whiteboard as people call them out; the boy from Kurt's math class (the cute boy from Kurt's math class) leans over and starts explaining the different events that they're organizing for Pride Week in January.

Looking around the room, Kurt feels like he has somehow moved to the moon.

* * *

"I've never been in a room with that many potentially-gay guys before," says Kurt, plastic container of salad lying forgotten in his lap. He's sitting cross-legged on Blaine's lofted bed, which is in Blaine's room, which, Kurt has learned very quickly, generally looks like a war zone. Blaine and his roommate Jonathan are perfectly clean in their personal hygiene, but that care does not extend to their room. Kurt's fingers are itching to pick up the jacket, textbooks, and sheet music that he can see on the floor. "Excluding the time that Mercedes and I went to a revival of _La Cage aux Folles_ in Columbus."

Blaine laughs, perched in his computer chair with his feet propped up on the desk. He has a slice of pizza in one hand and a paper plate in the other. "I know. It blows your mind a little, right?"

Kurt nods emphatically.

"For what it's worth, it gets less weird." Blaine and Jonathan have a set of _seriously_ impressive speakers (almost, but not quite, as nice as the ones that Kurt left in his basement), and as Blaine finishes his sentence, the music shifts over to some Marvin Gaye. Appropriately enough. "I did some stuff with the GSA when I first transferred here, and I did eventually get used to the fact that I wasn't the only openly gay guy in the room."

"So -- there _are_ \--?" Kurt asks.

He covers his mouth with his fist to respond; probably because he still has a mouth full of pizza. "Well, yeah," he says, like it's obvious. Which, to be fair, it is. "I mean, some straight guys go as allies, but we've definitely got representation up in there."

Kurt nods, absently; the movement sets his head to pounding. Headaches are apparently one of the many joys of being punched in the face, but they've been lessening in severity over the last few days. So, thankfully, have the worst of his bruises. Thinking about what Blaine said -- and mostly trying to figure out which of the guys he met were there as allies and which were not -- he stabs several pieces of lettuce with his spork.

Blaine sets down pizza and plate on his desk and rolls across the floor in his chair. He ducks just beneath Kurt, who can hear the minifridge door open and close under the bed. He comes up with a can of soda, which he is now holding out to Kurt.

"... I'm not thirsty," Kurt says, staring at him, and Blaine doesn't lower the can.

"It's for your eye," he says, patient. Either Kurt's poker face has significantly deteriorated, or Blaine is already cultivating an uncanny talent for reading Kurt's expressions.

Unnerved, Kurt reaches out and takes the soda. Their fingers brush; it makes Kurt feel like someone has electrocuted him through his hand, which is much more pleasant than he would have expected. "Thank you," he says, quietly.

Blaine doesn't wheel back to his pizza. Instead, he leans forward in his chair with his hands on his knees. "Is it still hurting?" he asks.

"A little," Kurt admits, pressing the cold can to his face. "Not as much anymore. Can we talk about something else?" Talking about it makes him think about it, which makes him think about the weight of Azimio's knee in the small of his back again, which makes his leftover bruises throb in sympathetic protest.

"Sure," says Blaine, and out of nowhere, he says: "So Mr. Clifton told me he was trying to recruit a new student into the Warblers."

Kurt has just taken a bite of salad, and he almost snaps a spork prong between his teeth.

"He didn't name any names, but apparently, the guy seemed kind of reluctant."

From the steady way that Blaine is looking up at him, it's pretty clear that he knows the mystery student's identity. Kurt chews rapidly and swallows, and he says, "It's not that I don't want to sing with the Warblers; I do, I just--" and he stops, his face twisting; Blaine waits patiently, because he is bizarrely, terrifyingly perfect. "It feels like a betrayal," Kurt finishes, finally.

"Well," Blaine says, slowly, "pretty much anything I could say here would be really self-serving," (Kurt smiles faintly), "so ... why don't you talk to your friends about it? See what Mercedes thinks." Blaine hasn't met anyone from Lima except Kurt's dad (and, stupidly enough, Karofsky), but he knows all about them by now; especially Mercedes.

Kurt already thought of that option, and he's been avoiding it. He didn't catch half the flak he had expected when he'd gone to glee rehearsal last Friday and flatly told the room that he was transferring, but it would have been pretty tough for anyone to give him a hard time when he was standing there with a bruised face and a quaver in his voice. Half the club had witnessed some form of the escalated abuse he had been taking. In the end, they'd gathered around him and mostly hugged him and cried or awkwardly patted him on the back. Nobody had said a word about defection or fraternizing with the enemy or Jesse St. James or any of the other baseless things that had been brought up when Rachel had first started asking questions about the picture in Kurt's locker. And Kurt appreciated (and still appreciates) that, but he can't help but think that it's going to be an entirely different story if he calls and says that he wants to join up with a rival glee club.

"Maybe," Kurt says reluctantly.

* * *

"You are being ridiculous right now," Mercedes says, rolling her eyes.

"Well--" Kurt starts, gesturing with his spork, but Mercedes's tinny voice steamrolls right over him.

"Like we'd want you not to sing!" She pulls her chair in closer to her desk and leans in toward her webcam. Kurt notices with a pang that she's wearing a pageboy hat and BUSOG T-shirt that they'd picked out together during a marathon online shopping session. "Kurt, all anybody here wants is for you to be happy." Beat. "Except maybe Rachel, but Rachel's kind of psychotic." Kurt stifles a snorted, slightly watery laugh in his sweater's sleeve. He has cried more in the last three months than he has in the rest of his life _combined_. It should be embarrassing, but he has his back to Blaine -- who has sprawled across his bed with a book and a pair of headphones and is politely pretending he can't hear anything -- and Kurt isn't ashamed to let Mercedes see that his eyes are red. "And I think even _she_ gets that this is what you've gotta do," Mercedes finishes.

"She _was_ surprisingly understanding," Kurt says half-heartedly, still into his sleeve. Their Rachel-mocking has become pretty tame, after she reached out to sing that Judy/Barbra duet with Kurt, and especially after she made herself into a target by snapping at Azimio and Karofsky to leave Kurt alone in the cafeteria.

"Everybody's gonna get it," Mercedes promises him. "Nobody is going to think you're _betraying_ us by wanting to sing at your new school, and if anybody _does_ \--" Her eyes gleam. "I'll straighten them out. You go to that audition, you get your Perón on, and you knock their damn socks off."

He smiles, slow and quiet and very genuine, and, not for the first time in the last week, is incredibly thankful that his bff is back; that she isn't being the well-meaning pod person who'd done nothing but try to get him to come to Jesus after his dad had his heart attack. "Okay," he says softly.

"Now, more importantly. Who the hell's room are you in?" Mercedes asks (it's really more of a demand than a question). "I _know_ you do not have a poster of Jessica Alba in a bikini up on your wall."

Kurt quirks a quick smile. He doesn't have to look to know what she's talking about; the Maxim poster in question is hanging over Blaine's bed. "It's Blaine's roommate's," he says. "There's a shirtless Matt Bomer up over the other bed; they apparently decided on equal representation." Dismissive: "I think it's some weird boy joke." There is a very quiet sound from behind Kurt, like somebody has stifled a huff of laughter. Kurt determinedly doesn't turn around.

Mercedes apparently misses that; she lowers her head and raises her eyebrows, peering at Kurt from under the brim of her cap. "What," she asks, "are you doing in Blaine's room?"

"I was here talking to him and he said it was stupid for me to go back to my hall when I could just use his computer to call you," Kurt recites, pulling a wry face. His Blaine impression is getting pretty good.

"What'd he say about the whole Warblers thing?" she asks.

"That I should solicit your opinion."

"Hm," says Mercedes. She looks and sounds satisfied with that advice. "I like him."

"Of course you're saying that," he replies tartly. "He told me to call you and do whatever you say."

"Oh, what, and you _don't_ like him?" Mercedes retorts, laughing. "C'mon, Kurt; I hear more about this guy than I do about Lady Gaga."

" _Mercedes!_ " Kurt remonstrates under his breath. Thanks to the small box in the righthand corner of the screen, he can actually watch his face turn the color of an overripe tomato.

"What?" she asks. "You are _not_ subtle, boy--" and then she registers that he is violently shaking his head despite the pain it causes, his eyes the size of dinner plates, and her eyebrows rise. She lowers her voice. "Is he right--?"

"What did you think was behind me, a scarecrow in jeans?!" Kurt hisses.

"He wasn't moving; I thought it was a pile of clothes!" Mercedes hisses back. "Can he _hear_ us?"

He stares at the computer for several long seconds, and then he slowly, carefully peers over his shoulder. Blaine is lying on his stomach, facing away from Kurt; he's bobbing his head to the beat of whatever he's listening to, reading the textbook spread out in front of him, and he has his elbow on the bed and his chin in his hand, fingers covering his mouth.

Kurt shoots Mercedes an unimpressed look and he clicks into the chat window. 'he's wearing headphones,' he types, then he shrugs at her to say he doesn't know.

She sighs, exasperated. "Well, how was _I_ sup--" Kurt points fiercely downward, at the keyboard, and Mercedes huffs again and glances down; he can hear keys clicking. 'how was i supposed to know he was there? you could have warned me!!'

'it never came up!' Kurt retorts.

Mercedes rolls her eyes at him and types, 'well since he's there + everything....' Then she says out loud (very loud), "I'd kinda like to meet some part of Blaine that isn't his legs."

He pulls his very bitchiest _don't you dare embarrass me_ face at her. Mercedes stares back, unimpressed. Kurt exhales sharply, turns around, and says, "Blaine?" Blaine's shoulders twitch faintly, but he doesn't stop nodding to whatever he's listening to. Kurt raises his voice. "Blaine."

Blaine lifts his headphones off one ear and rises up on his elbow, glancing back at Kurt over his shoulder. "What's up?" he asks genially. He doesn't _seem_ to have been listening to their conversation.

"Mercedes wants to 'meet' you," Kurt says, with sarcastic finger-quote emphasis on 'meet.'

"Shut up," says Mercedes, laughing.

Blaine's smile starts slow but spreads all the way across his face. "The famous Mercedes? I'm there." He pulls his headphones all the way off and leaves them on the pillow, and then he sits up and hops down off the bed. "Hi Mercedes," he says, coming up behind Kurt. He rests a steadying hand on Kurt's shoulder as he leans in over the desk -- like it's nothing; no big deal to just reach out and casually touch someone -- and he and Mercedes grin at each other as she says hi.

Kurt decides that he is allowed to bask in this moment.

* * *

"Rock, rock, step ball change, step ball change," calls out Shawn, standing at the front of the room and thumping the piano with his hand to keep the beat when there's no music. There is a conspicuous open space in the group lined up on the risers; one that Shawn is going to have to fill once he has finished drilling them over and over again on the choreography.

Shawn, Kurt reflects as he steps-steps then spins under the shouted directions, all in a tight formation with the rest of the Warblers, is an impressive taskmaster. He's not quite to Rachel Berry standards of fanaticism (thankfully, no one is), but he takes admirable amounts of pride in coming up with and then teaching dance steps to the club. Though, unlike Rachel, 1) Shawn's fellow students have actually given him influence over them, both by affording him a co-captainship and by making him their choreographer; 2) he doesn't seem to have gone mad with power; and 3) Shawn both notices and cares when everyone is ready to drop dead.

Kurt wonders if this is what it would have been like if the New Directions had allowed Mike to choreograph numbers for them, instead of having Mr. Schue come up with all the dance moves.

"Better," says Shawn, finally laying off on the piano. He runs a hand over his head; Kurt is pretty sure he remembers him singing and dancing directly to Blaine's right when Kurt had first seen the Warblers perform "Teenage Dream." He's also pretty sure he has memorized those two minutes of his life and saved them forever.

"Water break, okay? Be back in ten," says Shawn. A bunch of the guys just slump down where they were standing, sprawling across the risers. David takes off like a shot; from the catcalls of the bass section, he's probably been bitching to them all morning about his girlfriend being in town while he's stuck at a Saturday dance rehearsal. "Ten minutes!" Shawn bellows after him.

Everyone has dressed down for four hours of dancing, mostly in workout clothes. There are many, many pairs of tragic shapeless knee-length basketball shorts in attendance, but no one so much as blinked when Kurt walked in wearing designer sweats and a sweatshirt with the neck cut out. Still standing now, he reaches up and adjusts the headband holding his hair back.

"Kurt, are you not even _tired_?" Jonathan asks pathetically, from the floor.

Enrique is perched beside him, checking something on his phone. Without even glancing up, he says, "He's like the Energizer Bunny; it's terrifying."

"Thank you," Kurt says, sitting down with them and neatly folding his legs. "I think. But pink fur isn't my color: tacky." Someone sitting nearby snorts; still not looking away from his phone, Enrique offers a hand, palm up. Kurt stares at it for several seconds before realizing that he is being offered a high five, and he tentatively slaps it.

"Seriously," Jonathan groans, and Kurt shoots him a pitying look. His normally perfectly-styled shock of black emo hair (and that's exactly what it is, no matter _what_ Jonathan insists) is drooping with sweat and effort. "How are you always ready to just--" He gestures vaguely with a hand above himself, "keep going?"

"I appreciate being challenged," Kurt says, and half the guys flopped down near them groan. "Really!" he insists. "We didn't take on choreography half this complex at--" Which is when he realizes that he has broken his cardinal rule of not talking about what the New Directions are potentially doing for Sectionals, and that everyone around him is listening with undisguised interest. The Warblers aren't cheaters and they would never behave like Vocal Adrenaline, but that doesn't mean that they don't want to know what McKinley's glee club is like. "--My old school," he finishes lamely, but they all know that he's talking about the competition.

"Hey, Kurt," says Shawn from the front of the room, and Kurt turns to glance that way. "Think you can give Jonathan a hand with that last turn? He's still not getting it." Kurt half smiles, startled.

Jonathan makes a noise like a disgruntled sea lion. "Up," Shawn says. "Up, up. If you'd wake your ass up in the mornings instead of coming here and dancing like you're still asleep, I'd let you take breaks."

As Jonathan drags himself up off the risers and comes down to the front of the room, Kurt shoots Shawn a grateful look, which Shawn graciously ignores.

"It's easy," Kurt tells Jonathan. "You just need to set your feet like this, then shift your weight all at once..."

* * *

" 'Appreciate the challenge' _my ass_!" bellows Jonathan, skidding into the chorus room with a tiny netbook cradled against his chest.

Kurt stares at him, one eyebrow cocked, then glances from side to side. Thankfully, the rest of the Warblers, mostly sitting down and waiting for Mr. Clifton to arrive so Wednesday rehearsal can begin, are looking just as confused as he is.

"Did you drink three of those 5-Hour Energy things again?" Blaine asks from the back row. "Because that was a really bad idea last time." From the general undercurrent of low laughter, whatever happened had been a very _public_ really bad idea.

"No!" Jonathan says, pointing at Blaine, then shifting his finger to Kurt, who frowns at the sudden, unexpected scrutiny. "I found out how Kurt picks up dance moves so fast and never gets tired."

"...I have no idea what he's talking about," Kurt says, in response to the quizzical looks that he can feel the back of his head receiving. He really doesn't.

Jonathan says, "AHA!" (Kurt is beginning to think that Blaine's 5-Hour Energy theory is a sound one; Jonathan _has_ been known to pull all-nighters and then be loopy for days afterward) and then spins the laptop around and hits play on a YouTube video.

Kurt has about a half a second to recognize a sea of red and white uniforms and for his eyes to begin to widen, before the sound kicks in and he hears the opening notes of " _J'Irai Ou Tu Iras_ " that haunted his dreams for four months last spring.

On the tiny screen, four Cheerios are thrown 15 feet into the air in perfect unison.

"Not," says Enrique, his eyes glued to the screen (and, Kurt suspects, the Cheerios' tiny skirts), "that I'm complaining -- but what the hell am I watching and why?"

"Wait for it," says Jonathan, which is precisely when the announcer says, "Nnnnnext up, ladies and gentlemen, competing for the national title here in sunny Atlanta, please welcome, the reigning champions, the William McKinley High School Cheerios from Lima, Ohiooooo!"

The confetti cannons go off over the sounds of cheering, the full squad launches into the routine, and Kurt watches a lone figure shimmy up through the perfect red-and-white rows to dance right in the front, at the dead center of the formation. Kurt takes a sidelong glance to the side, and finds that one of the Warblers sitting next to him has leaned forward in his chair and is squinting at the tiny figure on the screen; no one else seems to have gotten it yet.

Then the confident figure at the front opens his mouth and belts, " _Chez moi les forets se balancent_ " in an utterly unmistakable voice, and half the Warblers lunge forward in their chairs all at once.

"Wha--" says a voice from somewhere behind Kurt, and then the ESPN camera crew zooms in for a shot of the singer's face.

Pandemonium breaks out in the chorus room; Jonathan actually has to pause the video due to noise levels.

"Okay," says David, "I think I speak for all of us when I say: _what??_ "

"I was the featured vocal soloist for the McKinley Cheerios last year," Kurt says with great dignity, his arms folded over his chest. "I performed a fourteen-and-a-half-minute medley of Céline Dion's greatest French-language hits."

"You were a cheerleader?" asks Blaine's voice, and Kurt actually turns around to answer that particular question. There's a furrow between Blaine's eyebrows; not a bad one, just one that seems to imply that he's surprised by, and taking in, this new information about Kurt.

"For four misguided months of my life, yes," Kurt says. "I quit when I decided I valued my sanity more than winning Nationals."

"You won _Nationals_?" asks Wes.

Kurt imperiously flicks his fingers at Jonathan's computer. "This is the ESPN coverage of the winning performance."

"This is blowing my mind right now," says one of the awed freshman baritones whose name Kurt hasn't learned yet.

"Uhh, can we please _quit talking_ and watch the rest?" says Adam, and, clearly not needing further prompting, Jonathan hits play again.

"Isn't this song a duet?" Blaine asks after two more bars, and half the room -- including Kurt -- turns around and stares at him.

"... My mom listens to her CDs," Blaine says.

"Coach Sylvester said that a true star could sing harmonies with himself," Kurt explains.

Blaine is looking at him funny across two rows of people.

"She was cray-cray," Kurt clarifies.

They're all still looking at him.

"She would shoot bean bags at your feet if she decided that you weren't lifting your leg high enough," Kurt says. "In comparison, Shawn is a kitten rolling in rainbows."

"I'm gonna go ahead and take that as a compliment," Shawn says, not looking away from the screen. "Everybody shut up."

They watch the whole thing, and by about halfway through, Kurt's stomach has stopped defensively knotting up because he begins to realize that yeah, the guys do think it's kind of funny but they also think it's awesome. They grin at the shoulder-carry from two male Cheerios, and they clap his shoulders when Kurt-from-five-months-ago hits the high notes and somebody mutters "Holy shit" when he goes for the lowest note in " _Regarde-Moi_ " and they chorus " _Ohhhhhhhh!_ " when he sweeps his leg into a kick high enough that he could almost touch his shin to his face.

Mr. Clifton comes in within the last few seconds of the video and looks totally confused as to why his students are applauding.

It's actually nice.

After rehearsal, there's the sound of jogging feet from behind Kurt and Blaine catches up to him as he ducks out into the hallway. "Hey, Kurt, wait up," he says, pretty unnecessarily given that he's only a step behind, but Kurt pauses to wait. "So I guess we know now how you teach Jonathan footwork so easily," he says, grinning.

"Actually, my teaching experience comes from a brief stint on the football team," Kurt responds. At Blaine's blank look, he adds, "I was the kicker."

"You ... taught the football team to dance?" Blaine asks.

"We did the routine for 'Single Ladies.' " Kurt holds up his hand, palm out, and gives it a couple of illustrative flips. "It helped loosen them up and actually win a game or two."

When he looks sideways, he finds Blaine staring at him. Again, it doesn't seem negative, just -- startled, like he's filtering this new information. The stare is intent enough that Kurt glances away to keep from turning colors under it.

"Wow," Blaine says. "That school should be really, _really_ sorry it didn't fight harder to keep you, Kurt."

Kurt holds the strap of his bag tightly, and he doesn't know what to say, so he says dully, “Yes, well,” and then adds: “You're just trying to change the subject away from the fact that you're a closeted fan of Miss Céline Marie Claudette Dion Angélil. It's very sad; worshipping at the feet of pure French-Canadian diva genius is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“It's my mom!” Blaine protests.

* * *

“Unacceptable,” Kurt proclaims after a single glance, sprawled across his bed with his chin in his hand.

“Seriously?” Bernard complains, still standing there with his arms spread open.

“You're taking the girl to a French restaurant in Columbus, not a barn-raising,” Kurt says tartly, and Damian and Paul – who, along with a third hallmate who doesn't glance up from the paper he's writing on his laptop, have taken over the extra bed that Kurt uses as a couch – start laughing.

“ _Burn!_ ” says Paul, who has been streaming an unhealthy number of old _That 70s Show_ episodes lately.

Kurt has the only single on the hall, and his room is big and always clean and looks less like a high school or college dorm room than anyone else's, and somehow, that has lead to his space becoming the designated hang-out area whenever the commons is overcrowded. He keeps discovering Cheetos in the throw pillows and he sometimes has to get bitchy to throw people out when he decides that he needs some alone time (several hallmates are entirely incapable of taking a hint), but he finds himself appreciating the company much more than he ever would have expected.

Bernard frowns down at his jeans and red and white checkered button-up shirt.

Kurt sighs sharply and closes his laptop. “Come on,” he says, rolling off his bed. Bernard stares at him blankly. Kurt shooes him none-too-patiently. “ _Move_.”

“Where are we going?”

“Through your closet,” Kurt tells him, and Damian and Paul scramble to follow.

Bernard whines the whole way through as Kurt proclaims most of his wardrobe unwearable (to the delight of the peanut gallery, which grows exponentially over the course of about 15 minutes), but he goes off to pick up his date wearing a sport coat and an entirely different outfit, and his roommates have to cover for him when he doesn't make it back before curfew. He apparently sneaks in after midnight and, in the morning, tells Kurt and whoever else will listen how appreciative his date was of the way that his blue dress shirt complemented his eyes (like Kurt said it would). Kurt is pleased by the date's good taste, though less pleased by being subjected to explicit tales of what _else_ was good about her.

So Kurt somehow becomes the queer eye for 20 straight guys, which has the potential of being exploitative or weird, except that the hallmates who ask for his help generally appreciate it and quite frankly, this is like catnip to Kurt. Going through terrible teenage wardrobes is his stress relief; it's better than hours spent watching Rachel Zoe proclaim things to be bananas or staring at YouTube videos of puppies play-fighting.

Like he has always said: makeovers are like crack. Just without the potential cardiovascular and brain damage.

* * *

Kurt talks to his dad several times a week. He actually e-mails with Carole more often; he'll check his inbox between classes and find that she has sent him a link to a story on a production of _The Sound of Music_ in Columbus, or a photo gallery of Christian Siriano's collection at New York Fashion Week six months ago. His dad, though, is more of a phone guy, so while Carole will sometimes hop on to assure Kurt that she is keeping his dad to the prescribed diet and once in a while Finn will awkwardly say hi and tell Kurt about Glee Club stuff that Kurt already knows through Mercedes and Tina, Kurt mostly talks to his dad.

Kurt makes his dad tell him about the outcomes of doctors' appointments (prognosis: good) and relate stories from days at the garage, but primarily, Burt asks questions and Kurt tells him about homework and Warblers rehearsals and _American Idol_ nights and French Club meetings and a little about GSA event organization. It's kind of awkward sometimes, but they're both trying and his dad is determined to know about what's going on in Kurt's life, good and bad; Kurt thinks he hasn't entirely forgiven himself for not knowing how bad things were at McKinley until he got called into the principal's office because Kurt had been jumped in a hallway.

He's sitting at his desk with his phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear, explaining the assignment he's working on as he Googles Filippo Brunelleschi in the search for more sources, when somebody knocks at his open door and then walks right in. From that, Kurt knows that it has to be one of only a handful of people; he glances over and finds that it's Blaine, looking ragged and uncharacteristically unkempt, with a textbook tucked under his arm. He stops short on seeing the cell phone pressed to Kurt's ear and he takes a half a step back, miming walking out again; Kurt shakes his head and points at the spare bed that he has lowered and uses like a couch. Blaine throws himself down face first on the couch-bed and lies there like that for a minute before lifting his head, opening his French book, and starting to read. Kurt furrows his eyebrows at him, thinking that the noise level in Blaine's room must be finally getting to him, and then realizes that his dad is asking him something.

"--What?" he says, looking back at his computer screen, like that's going to help him figure out what he missed.

"I hear the glee club competition thing is in Lima this year," his dad says.

"Sectionals, Dad," Kurt reminds him for the umpteenth time. "McKinley's name was picked during the random draw, yes."

"Okay," says his dad. "Are you gonna be able to get away afterward?"

He -- hadn't actually thought of that. "I have a midterm the next day," Kurt says, hesitant.

"Oh." His dad is quiet for a couple seconds, then he says, "Well, hey, that's--"

"But I'm sure Mr. Clifton would be okay with me leaving for dinner," Kurt interrupts. He hopes Mr. Clifton will be okay with him leaving for dinner. "You'll have to drive me back to school, though."

"Hell, Kurt, that's not a problem," his dad says firmly, and Kurt smiles. "So are we gonna see this guy you're always talking about or what?"

Kurt sputters; he asks feebly, "Which guy; there are a lot of guys here," but he knows exactly who his dad is talking about.

"C'mon, Kurt; don't play dumb with me," says Dad. "You went to the library with Blaine, you rehearsed harmonies with Blaine, you went to the movies with Blaine and the guys, Blaine says the best elective to take second semester is _fencing_ , he shows up the night you move in to help carry your stuff--"

Pretty much what Kurt takes from this recitation is that his dad really listens to him during their conversations; more than he'd even realized.

"Can you blame us if I want to talk to the kid again and Carole wants to meet him?"

Kurt laughs. It comes out much more nervous and high-pitched than he'd intended. "You're making this sound like _Meet the Parents_."

"Is it? You tell me."

" _Dad_ ," Kurt hisses in protest, which is when he glances over at the bed-couch, which is when he figures out that Blaine has gone face-down into his book and is breathing slow and even. "--Hold on," he says into the phone, dropping his voice.

"What?" he hears his dad ask, and then he gets up and slips out of his room, quietly pulling the door shut behind himself until it's only open a crack. The hall is quiet at this time of night; most of the guys are at dinner. Kurt sits down on the floor, back pressed against the wall, and then he lifts his iPhone to his ear again.

"--lo?" his dad is asking.

"Sorry; I'm back," he says, still keeping his voice low so it doesn't echo through the empty hall.

Dad sounds exasperated. "What was that?"

Kurt sighs sharply. "I didn't want to talk about this while he was in the room, and then I turned around and he was asleep, so I had to move."

"He was asleep," his dad repeats. "Blaine. He was in the room the whole time?" Beat, and then he says: "He's asleep in _your room_?"

He sighs again, and he silently asks the ceiling for strength. "He came in while you and I were talking; his hallmates have been having a _Left 4 Dead_ tournament while he tries to cram for an important test, so he came here, because my room is quiet, and then I guess he was tired because he fell asleep on the extra bed." His dad doesn't say anything, so Kurt adds, "The bed that I don't sleep in," and he rolls his eyes. It's all a guess, given that he didn't actually exchange words with Blaine when he came in, but Kurt thinks it's a pretty _good_ guess, given the state of Blaine's hall the last time he'd been on it earlier this afternoon.

"Okay." Dad sounds gruff, but mollified. Kurt is torn between telling him the truth (that they're just friends) and informing him that he can't be against a boy sleeping in his room forever.

Neither of them is in any way ready for that second conversation. Kurt goes with the first option. "We're friends, Dad."

"But he _is_ gay," his dad says, like he's trying to get this -- no pun intended -- straight.

"Yes," says Kurt, pressing a hand to his face. "But just because we're both gay and we get along -- it doesn't automatically mean that we're going to date. I have gay friends now." He stresses: " _Friends_."

There's a moment as his dad presumably takes this in, and then he says, "Okay. Carole still wants to meet him."

"Okay," Kurt acquiesces. "Fine. _If_ you promise you won't scare him."

"Me?" asks Dad. "I'm not a scary guy."

He snorts. "Good night, Dad."

"Okay, okay," says his dad, sounding amused. His voice is warm. "Night."

When Kurt steps back into his room, he finds that Blaine hasn't moved an inch. Kurt regards him for several seconds, frowning, then decides that he has to move the textbook. It can't be comfortable, and Blaine won't be happy if he wakes up and finds his book drooly. Not that Blaine would actually drool in his sleep. Kurt can't picture that.

He does the easy part first, lifting a chenille throw and a pillow off his bed and carefully covering Blaine with the blanket, shoulders to feet. Then the hard part. He stands over Blaine for several seconds, strategizing, and then he finally just reaches down, slips his hand under Blaine's head -- he must have recently showered and not bothered to slick back his hair, because it's all damp soft curls under Kurt's fingers -- and lifts his head as gently as he can as he tugs the book out from underneath and replaces it with a pillow.

"Kurt?" Blaine asks dimly, his voice rough with sleep and confusion, and something catches in Kurt's chest.

"Go back to sleep," he says, sitting down in his chair and wheeling back to his computer. "I'll wake you up in two hours."

Blaine must be exhausted, because he doesn't say anything else.

* * *

Finn calls on the Tuesday night before Sectionals.

Kurt answers the phone with, "What's wrong?" His heart is racing and he thinks he might be sick; he's unable to think about anything but sitting in the ER waiting room in September.

"What?" says Finn's voice, and then he realizes. "Oh, no, dude -- your dad's fine. Everybody's fine." Beat. "Sorry."

He exhales, long and slow. "It's fine," he says, both to Finn and to Damian, Bernard, and Omid, who are sitting closest to him and are shooting him several variations on a concerned or weirded-out look. He gets up off the couch and he steps out of the lounge as the favorite contestant comes onstage and one of the guys wolf-whistles at her skintight outfit while the rest of the crew applauds. Kurt rolls his eyes and closes the door behind himself. "What's going on?"

"Does something really have to be going on for me to call you?" Finn asks, and it actually sounds like a genuine question; like it hasn't occurred to him that _Rachel_ calls Kurt more often than Finn does.

"Yes," Kurt says succinctly. Down the hall, Erik and Paul are apparently having a war; there is a ball of some sort hurtling back and forth between their open doors, objects clattering and voices laughing. "You never call me. I repeat: what's going on?" Finn hems and haws, and Kurt sighs sharply. "Finn, out with it. I'm missing an astoundingly skanky performance on _American Idol_ for this."

"Rachel broke up with me," Finn says, all at once, and Kurt narrowly avoids saying, _Oh, God_ out loud. Instead, he walks down the hall and pushes the door open, and he sits down on the steps that lead up to the third floor of the dorm.

"When?" he asks.

"This afternoon." Finn actually sounds morose. "She's really, really mad."

There was a time when this entire conversation would have filled Kurt with glee, for multiple reasons, none of which were terribly flattering to his character. Now, it mostly makes him feel tired. "What happened?"

"Uhhhhh," says Finn.

Kurt waits.

"I kind of ... slept with Santana last year, but told Rachel I was a virgin."

Well, _that_ actually manages to shock him. "Oh my God," Kurt says, enunciating each and every word. "I hope you've been tested."

"What?" says Finn's voice. "Oh. I'm not stupid. We used a condom."

That doesn't actually make Kurt feel much better about this entire conversation. "Why would you tell Rachel you were a virgin?" he demands, which is, _of course_ , when two Warblers come up the stairs. They have twin looks of amusement and confusion.

"I don't know!" Finn says, anguished, as Kurt waves a _get out, get out_ hand at David and Enrique, who are unsubtly trying to listen to his conversation. "It was so stupid; I just -- I totally panicked! But Santana got super pissed this afternoon when Rachel was being ... Rachel, and she told her, and Rachel says she's never going to speak to me again."

"She has to speak to you," Kurt says, and he mouths _stepbrother_ in response to David's terrible pantomime of _who the hell are you talking to?_ He turns away from the two of them. "You're performing together at Sectionals."

"She won't sing with me!"

Kurt stops in his tracks, as the two Warblers round the landing and keep going upstairs. " _Well_ ," Kurt says. "This _is_ serious."

"I know!" Finn insists. "I don't know what to do."

"So ... you called me," Kurt says, both wary and a little touched. "Despite how potentially bizarre this conversation would be."

"I knew it wouldn't be weird; we're totally cool now," Finn says dismissively, like it's nothing, and Kurt gives a startled half smile despite himself. "And I kind of figured -- well, you and Rachel like a lot of the same stuff--"

"Don't tell her you said that, if you're trying to apologize," Kurt advises. "I'm only letting it pass because you're emotionally distraught."

Finn ignores him. "And I thought you might, like, have an idea or something."

Kurt leans forward in his perch on the stair, one leg neatly crossed over the other. "You do realize that you're talking to the one member of the New Directions -- past or present -- who has never so much as been on a date," he points out.

"There's that guy--"

Kurt grits, "I'm not dating Blaine."

"I don't care if you haven't been on a date or whatever," Finn says. "I just need some help here, Kurt, and--" His voice lowers to a hush, "I can't exactly take this to your dad or Mr. Schue." Kurt is silent for several long seconds, delicately pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. Finn's voice finally says, "I mean, if you don't w--"

"I know that I gave you this advice before and it worked out fairly disastrously for everyone involved, but you should sing to her," Kurt says, lifting his head out of his hand. "Find something heartfelt about how much she means to you and/or how sorry you are, work out an arrangement, and sing it to her in private. It's exactly the kind of thing Rachel would go crazy for."

"Like ... what song?" asks Finn, but he sounds thoughtful.

"I would suggest something that's more to her taste than yours," Kurt says. "Something that shows that you've been paying attention to what she likes and that you went to a great deal of effort." He cannot _believe_ he is saying this, given Finn's general taste in music and Finn's limited vocal capabilities, but he finishes: "Try Broadway."

* * *

The next afternoon, Kurt finds himself saying, "Finn, you sang her a song about the baby that you conceived with a hooker and left behind in Vietnam."

Beside him, Blaine doubles over in silent laughter, his hand over his mouth, and Kurt keeps walking without him. It's too cold out today to stop moving, he has decided, and if that means he leaves a man behind, so be it.

He has been in the room during way, way too many melodramatic terrible war movie marathons, lately.

As soon as Kurt puts some distance between them, Blaine is loudly cracking up behind him.

"Are you _serious_?" Finn asks; Blaine scrambles after him, laughter stifled but still grinning _hugely_ , and falls into step with Kurt again, leaning in closer. Kurt tries to swat him away but he won't move, so he finally sighs and tips his phone outward so that Blaine can hear. They walk close together, almost temple to temple. Kurt tries not to focus on it.

"Oh my God," Finn moans, and Blaine spins away, muffling laughter again.

Kurt doesn't find this particularly funny. Finn just mangled a Broadway classic; not only is that a crime on its own merits, but it will be _very_ difficult to win Rachel Berry's affections back after that. "Okay," he says. "The Broadway strategy was a failure, and possibly not ever a good idea if you were selecting your own music; I should have considered that. So--" he gestures, tight and contained, with one gloved hand, "pick something you'd actually want to sing."

Finn sounds like he thinks this is a trap. "Really?"

"Really. Do you not have _any_ songs that you associate with Rachel?"

"Well," Finn says, slowly, "I guess 'Don't Stop Believin' '--"

"Not ones that you've performed with glee or sung to her already," Kurt interrupts, as he hears Blaine's quick footsteps crunching on the ice behind him. "Songs that come up on shuffle and make you pull that ridiculous face that you make at Rachel when she does absurd things."

"I pull ridiculous faces?" Finn asks, confused, as Blaine comes up beside Kurt and leans in to listen.

"Never mind," says Kurt. "Just -- something that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy about Rachel. Anything. The first thing that comes to mind. Right now." If he were in person, he would probably be snapping his fingers in Finn's face.

Finn says, immediately, " 'Just the Way You Are.' "

Kurt stops walking. Blaine stops too, having gone several steps ahead when Kurt halted, and he swings back to face Kurt and gives him -- and Finn, by extension -- two thumbs up of approval. "It's not an apology, but otherwise, that's pretty perfect," Kurt says, after having done a lightning-fast run through the lyrics in his head.

"Yeah?" says Finn hesitantly, and then, more confident: " _Yeah_. Thanks, Kurt."

"Don't mention it," Kurt says, his eyes on Blaine, who's waiting with his hands in his coat pockets and looks like he might bust out laughing again. "Seriously, don't tell Rachel you called me about this."

"Okay." Finn sounds distracted; there is a thud on the other end and he mutters something to himself about back-up harmonies, and Kurt guesses that he's gathering up his stuff or grabbing a computer to look up Bruno Mars's lyrics. "Hey," he says, more clearly. "I'll see you tomorrow, right?"

"Right," Kurt says, after several seconds, realizing why Finn will see him tomorrow: Sectionals. "Tomorrow."

"Okay. Bye!" And before Kurt has a chance to say another word, Finn hangs up. Kurt slowly lowers his phone, ending the call, and slips it back into his pocket. He glances at Blaine.

"I am so excited to meet this guy," says Blaine, grinning.

Tomorrow, Kurt thinks again, and he flashes Blaine a tight-lipped, tense smile.

* * *

Kurt doesn't know exactly _when_ in the confusing jumble of the last ten minutes Blaine took his hand (actually, that's a lie; Kurt knows it happened on the second verse of the Hipsters' rendition of “Only Girl in the World,” right when the octogenarian soloist sang that she wanted her baby to take her like a thief in the night), but he's grateful for its solid, warm, comforting presence as he pulls Blaine through the all-too-familiar tangle of the auditorium's curtains and wiring, knowing exactly what he needs to do to get to stage right without being seen by the audience.

Blaine doesn't complain or ask any questions or say a word; he just keeps up, and when Kurt stops, it's sudden enough that Blaine almost runs into him from behind. Kurt stopped because he saw the faint glow of the lamp on the technician's control board, which means that those six people standing in the wings... Kurt jumps when Blaine squeezes his hand and then lets go. Kurt takes one step forward, then another, and it's Brittany of all people who's the first to glance over her shoulder and spot him. She leaves Santana's side and -- impressively silent in stage heels -- flings herself at him.

Kurt staggers back a step with the force of Brittany hitting him, and he staggers a little more when she tries to wrap her legs around him as well as her arms. "Brittany," he hisses very quietly, and she takes the hint and puts her feet back on the floor.

"Hi Kurt!" she whispers, beaming at him.

Then someone else grabs him and he realizes belatedly that it's Tina, murmuring something that he can't hear; somebody reaches in and violently ruffles his hair and Quinn hugs him like a lady (a lady with a very fierce grip). Finn claps him on the shoulder, looking totally delighted, and even Puck's teeth are showing in the dim light as he stands back and smirks. Applause rolls across the audience while the Hipsters take their abbreviated bows onstage and begin exiting on stage left.

"Break a leg," Kurt whispers to whoever is nearest; it happens to be Brittany and she blinks then glances down at her leg, but Quinn hears and she _smiles_ at him. The six of them whirl to face the stage as a musical cue starts. Tina waves at Kurt before she turns. For a split second, he almost takes an automatic step forward to join them, before he remembers.

When they've gone out into the bright lights, singing the opening notes of a song that sounds vaguely familiar (maybe it's by the Zutons, Kurt thinks numbly) and matched by the other six New Directions entering from stage left, Kurt becomes aware of Blaine again, and of the fact that at some point in the last thirty seconds, the rest of the Warblers showed up. Someone claps his back, pretty gently all things considered; Blaine settles his hands on his shoulders to get him to hold still and then he reaches up and runs his fingers through Kurt's hair, which Santana had apparently mussed beyond reason, to fix it.

Kurt watches the New Directions' set surrounded by his teammates, with a surreptitious hand brushing his.

* * *

Third place has already gone to the Hipsters.

Kurt's heart is hammering in his chest. He's not generally big on casual touch but the Warblers seem pretty intent -- mostly unknowingly, he thinks -- on breaking him of that; they're all lined up in two rows and an awful lot of them are grabbing at each other. Jonathan has slung the crook of his elbow across the back of Kurt's neck and Blaine is on his other side, his hand tight on Kurt's shoulder. Arm blocked from the audience's view by Blaine's body, Kurt has a white-knuckled fistful of the back of Blaine's blazer.

He wants to win; Kurt always wants to win. But he knows what a loss will mean for McKinley. He can't even look at the other side of the stage. He knows they're over there holding hands and mouthing _please, please, please_. This feels like Regionals last year, a heavy hand on his shoulder and everyone practically vibrating with tension, but worse, because Kurt both wants and doesn't want both outcomes.

"Say it," Dobbler is muttering very quietly behind him. "Say it, say it, say it." Someone else tells him to shut up, and then everyone around Kurt is suddenly going wild, shouting and jumping up and down and bro-hugging each other, and Kurt realizes that the winner was announced and that the announcer is trying to congratulate William McKinley High School on their second place finish, but the auditorium is erupting and he can't be heard.

Jonathan is pounding him gleefully on the back and Blaine is trying to say something, his smile lit up in a way that Kurt has never seen, but that delight falls away as he sees the look on Kurt's face. He asks Kurt something that he can't hear.

"It's not good enough," says Kurt.

"What?" shouts Blaine over the noise.

"Second place isn't good enough!" Kurt shouts back, suddenly furious, and it's all shrilly pouring out of him at once; the thing that has been giving him fits of anxiety and guilt as he has tried not to talk about the New Directions. "They're going to disband the club; there's not enough funding and the principal struck a deal with Mr. Schue that if they didn't place at Regionals, he would shut them down!"

Blaine's expression has gone stunned; standing beside him, Shawn looks very, very serious.

"Hold up," Shawn bellows. "Seriously? If they don't go on to Regionals, they're done for?" His voice carries enough that several of the nearest Warblers stop celebrating and turn to stare.

Kurt nods.

"You're _sure_?" Shawn asks.

Kurt nods, five times in rapid succession. All he can think of is what it felt like last May when they thought they were finished; when they cried in Mr. Schuester's living room and how empty and terrible the prospect of a high school career without glee had been. He realizes belatedly that he still has an iron grip on Blaine's blazer.

Shawn cups his hands to his mouth and shouts. "Huddle up!" With the help of the nearest Warblers grabbing or smacking the guys on the outward edges, they all crowd in around Shawn. The audience is still going crazy in their seats; they loved them. The huge cheering contingent from Dalton and the nearby all-girls' Catholic school -- where most of the guys find their dating pool -- is waving signs and shouting. "Listen," says Shawn, "we won this, fair and square, and we all know that. But McKinley's glee club is gonna get shut down for good if they don't go to Regionals."

"... You've got to be kidding with this," says Enrique flatly, staring at Shawn.

"Mr. Clifton," says Blaine, looking up at the teacher on the edge of their huddle. "What would happen if we forfeited before they can officially award us first prize?"

A couple of guys groan; most of them are quiet, though, listening, and Kurt cannot believe this is even being discussed.

Mr. Clifton adjusts his glasses and looks at Blaine and Shawn like he's never seen them before. "Well," he says, "there's not exactly _precedent_ for it, but -- the trip to Regionals should go to the runner-up."

"These guys have got it really rough," Shawn says, low and intent. "Their school doesn't have the resources or the don't-be-a-dick policies we're lucky enough to have. This is a democracy; Blaine and I aren't gonna stand here as captains and tell you guys what we're going to do as a group, but I think we agree on what we think is the right thing here." He glances at Blaine, who nods firmly.

That's kind of condescending, even if it _is_ true, Kurt thinks; he thinks of the four scholarships that are paying for his tuition. But it's the outcome he wants (it's the outcome he needs; the outcome he wants is to _win_ ), so he keeps his mouth shut. He's the new guy. This isn't his argument to make.

Nobody says anything for several long seconds. Kurt doesn't breathe. Then Enrique says, "Ask the seniors. The rest of us will be back next year; they're the ones who're never gonna get another shot at this."

Shawn puts his hand up. "I'm for it." Slowly, Dobbler sticks his hand in the air; then David and Warren and Andy -- and Kurt suddenly realizes that he is looking at all nine seniors' hands.

"Okay," says Shawn grimly, and then there is a smiling balding man coming toward them with a large trophy.

It takes the combined efforts of Shawn, Blaine, and mostly Mr. Clifton to convince the officials that yes, the Warblers do actually want to give up their title. The crowd buzzes, clearly sensing that something is happening. Kurt still can't bring himself to look at the abject misery that he knows is standing off to his right, even though he knows that everything is about to change.

"Well, ladies and gentleman!" the announcer finally says, sounding utterly nonplussed. "We have something _completely_ unheard of in the history of the West-Central Ohio Sectionals competition. The Warblers have forfeited--"

"Respectfully, _respectfully_ forfeited," Shawn mutters.

"--their title, which means that your very own _William McKinley High School New Directions_ will be going on to the Regional competition!"

There is utter silence.

Then a voice shrieks on the other side of the stage, and the audience roars.

Kurt smiles to himself very, very faintly, then starts as Blaine reaches back, grabs his hand, and drags him into the front line -- right into Rachel Berry's arms.

" _Kurt!_ " gasps Rachel, and she flings her arms around his neck. If asked, Kurt would proclaim this the most uncomfortable hug that he has ever been forced to be a part of, but in the moment -- well, maybe he hugs her back. "Thank you, thank you--" She lifts her head back for a moment so she can tell him, "Of course, we wouldn't have _needed_ your assistance if _I_ had sung Quinn and Santana's solos--" and then she hugs him (really, throws herself at him) again.

"He did it," Kurt says, pointing at Shawn, and to her credit, Rachel immediately detaches herself and then hugs the stuffing out of a very wary-looking Shawn. Blaine is laughing off to the side, looking all too amused by the entire situation, and Kurt narrows his eyes at him. "Rachel, sic him," he says, and Blaine says, "Please d--" and then he yelps as Rachel pounces on him.

Rachel was just the first wave of attack; the entirety of the New Directions have descended on the Warblers, and Kurt is a little terrified of his two lives mixing like this, but he doesn't exactly have a choice in the matter. Tina and Mike try to rush him all at once, and he says, "It wasn't me; they took a vote," and, apparently taking her cue from that, Santana grabs Dobbler by the surprised face and kisses him right on the mouth. Everyone is hugging the Warblers (who are, for the most part, laughing and totally welcoming it, which isn't a huge surprise, given that Santana is making her way through the cute ones and Brittany has attached herself to Adam's side) and clapping them on the backs -- and out of the corner of his eye, Kurt spots Finn shaking Blaine's hand, towering over him.

He starts to turn in that direction, danger sense going off, but then Mercedes is there, grabbing him in a fierce hug, and _this_ is physical affection that Kurt will return with no qualms and no embarrassment. “Come on,” Mercedes says in his ear; “let's go rescue your boy.”

“He's not my boy,” Kurt protests as they break apart, but Mercedes just grabs him and drags him over, and Blaine grins when he sees them coming.

“Mercedes! We meet at last,” he says, and he goes right in for a hug with her. Finn is shooting Kurt a patently unsubtle thumbs up of approval over Blaine's shoulder and Kurt furiously waves at him to stop it – and he does, but mostly because that's the moment when Rachel launches herself into Finn's arms, saying something breathless about Bruno Mars, and kisses him.

The stage has officially become a riot, Kurt decides, watching Lauren Zizes happily try to chat up Gunther (Gunther's English isn't always tip-top; all the _Twilight_ references may actually be working), and Artie exchange a complicated-looking hand gesture with David, and Puck give out a couple of _vicious_ high fives. This is completely ridiculous. This cannot be real life. Quinn is smiling brighter than he's ever seen her smile, standing off to one side, watching all of them, and Sam – is right in front of Kurt. He's grinning at Kurt; it's the first time Kurt has seen him since the day that Sam hauled Azimio off him in the hallway and then got whaled on for his trouble.

“Thanks, Kurt,” he says, and Kurt gets as far as, “I didn't _d_ \--” before he's pulled into a very manly, _very_ unexpected back-slapping hug. Then Sam moves on, and the New Directions' Betsey Johnson dresses and shirt-and-tie combos are officially scattered among the Warblers' blazers, and maybe the mingling isn't quite as world-ending as Kurt had initially panicked that it would be.

Maybe.

* * *

Backstage, Kurt grabs Blaine by the elbow and drags him off to the side, away from the glee clubs tromping off toward the backstage hallway and the door that will lead out to the lobby. “Who are you, and how have you turned my life into an after school special?!” Kurt hisses, hauling him behind the nearest curtain.

Blaine laughs; says, “Honestly, I think Shawn really deserves more of the credit--” and Kurt steps in and hugs him, hard. He doesn't mean to do it; he's just so overwhelmingly grateful for the selfless thing that 10 boys just did out there for a group of strangers and he can't find the words to express how relieved he is, despite being disappointed that this means they have to lose, and Blaine is so close in the near-darkness and he smells nice and – Kurt loses his mind a little, he must, because this was not at all his intent when he pulled Blaine back here.

Blaine gives a startled whoosh of breath but almost immediately wraps himself around Kurt. It is _not_ the hips-apart, double-tap-on-the-back hasty hetero hug that Sam had laid on him. They're holding on and holding on, well past the time when it would be socially appropriate to let go. Kurt has never touched another guy like this; Blaine is lithe and warm and the planes of his back are strong under Kurt's hands. They're almost the same height (Kurt is just barely taller) and it's all too tempting to think of just bowing his head and hooking his chin over Blaine's shoulder, but he doesn't do it.

“Thank you,” Kurt says very quietly. Blaine lets the side of his head come to rest against Kurt's; a silent _you're welcome_.

Their chests are pressed together; Blaine can doubtless feel how hard and fast Kurt's heart is beating. If his life actually _was_ an after school special, this is exactly when one of them would turn and a kiss would happen. Kurt doesn't know if he's ready for that; he wants it, he knows he does, but there's so much going on and that would add a whole new terrifying level of complication to his life.

Just as he has decided that he wants to find out if he's ready for it (and that he's hoping that Blaine does it, because he's been too burned too badly in the past to risk it), someone belts, “ _Kurt!_ ” from somewhere nearby, and Kurt just about jumps out of his skin and Blaine starts against him, and they spring apart.

The curtain flies open and Kurt has never wanted to see Rachel Berry's face less in his entire life. “ _There_ you are; everybody's looking for you!” she says to Kurt, and then she realizes that he has sheepish-looking company. She gives Blaine a beady-eyed once over, then insists, exasperated, “You too; _come on!_ ”

Which is how Kurt winds up being dragged out of a blackout curtain alongside Blaine.

* * *

It's a good night anyway.

Kurt finds his family in the lobby. His dad hugs him fiercely while Kurt meekly says, "Hi Dad" into his shoulder and holds on just as tightly, and Dad tells Kurt he's proud of him (because, Kurt hadn't thought about it, but _of course_ the entire audience had been able to see him go white and then start shouting when the Warblers were announced the winners; he wonders if there will be consequences when he gets back to school tomorrow, but decides it can wait) and in the meantime, he can hear Carole laughing and introducing herself to Blaine behind them. Blaine is polite and respectful and funny and all of the things that parents love; he endears himself to Carole within the space of about five seconds.

Kurt lets Carole hug him, too, even as his dad greets Blaine and shakes his hand (and if it's a hard enough handshake to be painful, like Kurt suspects it is, Blaine never complains), and they're all just so happy to see him -- family, the glee club, even Mr. Schuester, everyone -- that Kurt almost can't believe he ever felt unappreciated and unnoticed this fall.

Blaine has to go back to Dalton with everybody else; Kurt tries to say thank you to the Warblers as a group while they wait to get on the bus. He gets sheet music and David's empty duffel bag thrown at him for his trouble, so it doesn't seem like anybody is holding an immediate grudge or accusing him of being a Jesse St. James.

Kurt can't wrap his mind around that. If he didn't know the New Directions and know what this means to them, he would be _livid_ if someone tried to give up a title that he had helped earn.

He's grateful.

Kurt's dad and Carole take Kurt and Finn and Rachel and Mercedes out to dinner at Breadstix, and afterward, Dad drives him the two hours back to Westerville in the pickup. They don't say much, but his dad doesn't make a single complaint about listening to Madonna and whenever Kurt glances over and sees his dad's face lit by the dashboard lights or the headlamps of an oncoming car, a little more tension that he hadn't even known was there eases out of Kurt's shoulders.

* * *

It sinks in over the course of several days that the New Directions are going to face Vocal Adrenaline at Regionals and then potentially go on to New York, and that Kurt won't be with them. It was easy to be jubilant when he was surrounded by the joy and gratitude of all of his old friends who he hadn't seen in too long; it's harder when he's deep in the throes of midterms and everyone around him is always either sleeping, studying, or in a terrible mood from too much of the latter and not enough of the former.

Blaine in particular has a tendency to push himself farther than is reasonable. When Kurt spots Blaine with his head pillowed in his arms on the library table for the third time this week, he rolls his eyes.

Cute Adrian Wu from his math class and the GSA (which is still how Kurt thinks of him, that full name, even after a solid month and a half at Dalton) stops, too, his books under his arm, and says, “Uh, Kurt?”

Kurt hitches his bag up higher on his shoulder. “I'm going on a mission of mercy,” he says, brusquely. “See you at the meeting Wednesday?”

“...Sure,” says cute Adrian Wu from his math class and the GSA, and Kurt leaves him standing there with a bemused, confused expression.

“This is a terrible habit to make,” Kurt says, looming over Blaine, and when Blaine doesn't move a muscle or make a sound, Kurt frowns. He watches him for several seconds; the slow rise and fall of Blaine's back, his one visible eye closed, the vulnerable curve of his neck – he's asleep.

By the time that Blaine starts to stir, Kurt is sitting at the table, legs neatly crossed and his world history textbook open in front of him, along with a binder that he's taking notes in. Blaine slowly lifts his head; the whole right side of his face is red and his hair is flattened. He blinks blearily at Kurt. “Hey,” he says, quizzical.

Without looking up from his studying, Kurt pushes a to-go cup of espresso across the table. “You should really stop studying here if you're just going to pass out like a sack of potatoes,” he says. “I've already disposed of no less than three separate Warblers who wanted to write on you with a Sharpie.”

“Oh my God!” groans Blaine, wrapping his hand around the coffee cup and dragging his mouth to it. “You're the _best_!” It's unclear whether he's talking about his near death by permanent marker or the coffee; Kurt suspects the coffee. (Kurt actually suspects that Blaine is talking to the espresso, not to Kurt.)

“I know,” says Kurt lightly as he keeps reading about Napoleon's failed invasion of Russia, but something flutters in his chest and one side of his mouth has quirked up.

He sounds much more alert after he takes a sip of the warm coffee, which he _should_ , considering how many shots of espresso Kurt had had the student worker put in it. “Seriously,” he says, yawning. “Thank you.”

“The next time you fall asleep in here, I'm going to let Wes and Jonathan write all over your face,” Kurt warns, and Blaine laughs quietly, pulling one of his books in toward himself.

“I would probably deserve that,” he says, flipping to a particular page. Almost immediately, he is frowning at it. After a second, he finishes: “One of the first things I learned here is not to fall asleep in public places. It'd serve me right.”

Kurt shoots a sidelong look at Blaine, then at the French textbook that he seems to be trying to light on fire with the power of his mind. He sighs and closes his own book. “ _As-tu besoin d'aide?_ ”

Blaine blinks tiredly, then looks up at him. “What?”

“ _L'aide_ ,” he says, impatient. “Do you need it.”

He clearly considers it for a couple seconds, then he says, “No; nah. I'm good. Thanks, though.”

Five minutes later, Kurt says, without looking up, “You need to either accept my offer or stop sighing at your textbook like it broke your heart and left you in San Francisco.”

“Do you really know this stuff?” Blaine asks, canting his book toward Kurt. “I mean, you're only in French II, right?”

“And you're somehow in French III,” Kurt retorts, taking a quick glance over the page's lesson about the subjunctive case, “which is a similarly unsuitable placing.”

“--Hey,” Blaine protests, scrubbing his eyes.

“Fourteen and a half minute Céline medley,” he reminds him ruthlessly, giving her name its proper pronunciation. “I've been studying the French language and culture since sixth grade.”

“Paris Fashion Week?” Blaine asks, shrewd.

“It's a dream,” Kurt admits. “Now, if you're too proud to accept help--”

He frowns at him. “I'm not,” Blaine says, borderline crabby, and he shoves his chair closer to Kurt's with a scrape that's loud enough that the librarian shushes them. Kurt decides not to take his sour mood personally. He actually finds it kind of funny. One so rarely sees Blaine outside the context of his general easygoing good-guy geniality that Kurt can't help but get a perverse kick out of ruffling his sleep-deprived feathers. He leans in to look at the book.

“ _Mais c'est quoi, ton problème?_ ” Kurt asks, unimpressed, his voice quieter after the librarian's reprimand. Their heads are bent together over the book. “The subjunctive case is child's play.”

Blaine grumbles, entirely in French, that nobody likes a smug _tout savoir_.

Before he really thinks about what he's saying (or about how atrocious Blaine's attempt at translating an English phrase into French was), Kurt points out, “ _You_ do,” and he catches Blaine swiftly smiling despite himself.

“ _Peut-être,_ ” Blaine allows, voice warm even as he pulls a face, and their hands brush when Kurt reaches for his pencil.

* * *

“You _really_ want to sing this in the winter concert?”

Kurt had had to ask.

Now he's being whirled around the choir room in a crude simulation of a waltz; crude because the dance break is not even _close_ to being in three-quarter time. This is completely silly and ridiculous and over the top – and Kurt loves every absurd dramatic second of it. As badly as he has _wanted_ it, has dreamed of dancing with a handsome boy for years, Kurt gave up on the idea around the same time that he gave up on the idea that he could convince Finn Hudson that what he really wanted was to date men. Logically, Kurt had known that having a boy sing to and dance with him would eventually be a possibility. He's getting out of Ohio if it kills him, and in New York or Los Angeles or London, there will be other boys who spent lonely teenage years swaying across their bedroom floors alone, practicing for the day when they can finally hold a dance partner.

An abstract "it will happen some day" is very different than a concrete "it is happening right now." Blaine's eyes are unfailingly on Kurt's even as they spin together, their hands clasped and Blaine's other hand on Kurt's waist feeling like it burns through layers of clothing, and Kurt almost misses his next cue because he can't stop smiling. It's desperately difficult to concentrate when he's this giddy, and this on the edge of a laugh.

“ _I simply must go_ ,” he sings, tearing himself out of Blaine's arms and stalking away across the floor.

“ _But baby, it's cold outside_ ,” Blaine croons from behind him.

“ _The answer is no._ ” Kurt turns around and keeps walking backward, shaking his finger _no, no, no_ at Blaine, who's coming on strong, grinning.

“ _But baby, it's_ cold _outside,_ ” he pleads, reaching out to Kurt, who lets him almost come within arm's reach before he swings away, his nose in the air.

“ _This welcome has been_ ,” (“ _How lucky that_ you _dropped in_ ”), “ _so nice and warm_ ,” Kurt sings, reaching the piano and letting himself glance back at Blaine.

“ _Look out the window at that storm!_ ” Blaine points a dramatic finger, arm outstretched and elbow locked, at the window.

The view is sunny.

Kurt misses his next cue because he's hoisting himself up to sit on the piano and he is, Gaga help him, giggling. “ _Gosh,_ ” Blaine sings, and he's coming closer, “ _your lips look delicious._ ” He's looking right at Kurt's mouth, color slowly rising into his face, and Kurt clutches at the edge of the piano and promptly forgets the line about his brother.

“ _Waves upon a tropical shore._ ” Blaine reaches out to Kurt, who abruptly realizes that he has been staring at Blaine; at his perfect hair and his dark eyes and the way his shoulders flex under his blazer as he moves.

Kurt hurriedly puts a hand on Blaine's shoulder and uses it as leverage to throw himself off the piano and spin away. “ _My maiden aunt's mind is vicious_ ,” he sings, unsure of when this stopped being a game and started feeling real.

“ _Oooh, your lips are delicious._ ” Blaine holds out his hand again, patient, and this time, Kurt hesitantly takes it.

“ _But maybe just a cigarette more..._ ” Blaine's hand is warm and strong, rough with guitar calluses, and his fingers stroke Kurt's wrist and a rush of heat overwhelms him and he almost, _almost_ steps in instead of away. But instead, he yanks his hand back and backs off, putting the piano between them; Blaine skips his line about a blizzard and looks stricken, like he thinks Kurt is actually running from him, and he opens his mouth off-beat--

“ _I've gotta get home_ ,” Kurt sings, aiming a tiny smile at him, leaning on the piano, and Blaine recovers.

“ _Baby, you'd freeze out there_ ,” he murmurs, and Kurt has spent a year mocking Finn and Rachel for stalking each other around the piano during duets, but there is something mesmerizing about watching Blaine come around the piano after him.

“ _Say, lend me a coat_ ,” Kurt drawls, letting Blaine catch up and then tugging at the lapel of his blazer, letting his palm brush Blaine's chest. Blaine twitches under his hand and he smiles, bright and immediate, and he misses the first couple words in his next line because he's mouthing 'New Kid' at Kurt.

“ _\--your knees out there_.” Blaine actually sinks down and takes several steps after him on his knees, and Kurt laughs, his fingers over his mouth.

“ _You've really been grand_ ,” he sings, extending his hand to Blaine to help him back onto his feet.

Blaine bounds up and presses Kurt's hand to his heart. His voice rings out on, “ _I thrill when you touch my hand!_ ”

Kurt's own heart is pounding. He pulls his arm back and makes an imperious dismissive gesture at Blaine, his head held high. “ _But don't you see?_ ”

“ _How can you do this thing to me?_ ” Kurt would almost believe the anguish in Blaine's voice as he serenades – except that there's a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth.

“ _There's bound to be talk tomorrow_ \--”

“ _Think of my lifelong sorrow_ \--”

“ _At least there will be plenty implied..._ ” Kurt gives up on any pretense of being on the run. They're just standing and singing to each other; close enough that he can smell Blaine's faint cologne, close enough that he could lift a hand at his side without moving his arm, and touch Blaine.

“ _If you got pneumonia and died_ ,” Blaine sings to him, and he's looking uncharacteristically jittery.

Kurt furrows his eyebrows at him; breathless: “ _I really can't stay_...”

“ _Get over that hold out!_ ” Blaine nearly sings over him and Kurt opens his mouth to hit the iconic last notes, but the music swells instead, a strangely-placed break, and Blaine says, “Kurt, I--” in a choked voice that is just about the least suave, least smooth thing that Kurt has ever heard.

Then there are loud voices and stomping footsteps from just outside and he hurriedly steps backward, and four or five Warblers come in together. They're arguing about a football game or a videogame or something equally pointless; Wes lifts his head as the last few notes of “Baby, It's Cold Outside” play over the sound system and he looks between the two of them and seems to realize what has been interrupted, his eyebrows rising, but it's way too late. Kurt grabs his blazer off the piano and shrugs into it, taking a seat. He can feel Blaine's eyes on him for several long seconds before Blaine turns his back to pull the CD out of the stereo system.

* * *

Kurt has been back from Christmas vacation for three days and is in the middle of a very angry run through his nightly routine, listening to "No Good Deed" from _Wicked_ on repeat with his computer speakers cranked all the way up, when someone bangs on his door hard enough to be heard above the music; hard enough that he starts and knocks over an open bottle of toner. Hissing, Kurt grabs for the bottle and sets it upright, but too late to stop a puddle from pooling. He glares at his desk, then grabs a roll of paper towels – and someone is _pounding_ on the door, and Kurt storms across the floor and throws the door open.

He and Blaine stare at each other for several long seconds.

" _One more disaster I can add to my generous supply!_ " Elphaba belts out of Kurt's computer speakers.

All at once: “I'm sorry, I was an epic jerk,” says Blaine, who is actually _dripping_ with cold water, enough that he is soaking wet spots into the carpet in the hall. He is talking faster than Kurt has ever heard him. “I don't know if you realize this, but I'm crazy about you, Kurt, and sometimes it makes _me_ crazy, which is something that never happens to me; of _course_ you should go out with that guy from the GSA if you like h--”

“Stop,” says Kurt, standing there with his arms folded over his chest and the roll of paper towels clutched tightly in one hand, and Blaine immediately shuts his mouth. “Go back.”

“I'm – sorry I was a jerk?” Blaine says, warily, like he's not entirely sure this is what Kurt means; like he doesn't know what to expect.

Carefully controlling the upward pitch that his voice wants to rise into, Kurt shakes his head and says, “After that.”

He sounds resigned. “You should go out with Adrian Wu.”

Kurt twirls his finger to say _back, back_.

“... I'm crazy about you?” He asks it hesitantly but Kurt can see the bare hope in his face, and Kurt can't help it anymore; he drops the roll of paper towels and his hands flash out to fist in the lapels of Blaine's drenched hoodie, and Blaine's face crumples in relief as he grabs Kurt's waist. His hands are cold and damp even through Kurt's shirt and he _doesn't care_. Even Kurt himself doesn't know why he's ceaselessly nodding, whether he's silently confirming to Blaine that that was what he wanted to hear repeated or he's telling him that he feels the same way; maybe both. He stops nodding so they can rest their foreheads together and Blaine cups his cold hands on either side of Kurt's neck, just inches below cradling his jaw, and they breathe shakily, out of sync with each other. Kurt's fingers are actually cramping from the strength of his grip on Blaine's sweatshirt.

“I really am sorry,” Blaine murmurs, his voice husky.

“I was never actually going to go out with Adrian,” Kurt says in much the same tone, and he feels Blaine start against him.

“ _What?_ ”

“It was the principle of the thing,” Kurt tells him firmly, and he would scowl if he wasn't so nervous and thrilled at the same time; “You were being _ridiculous_ ,” and Blaine is just starting to ruefully laugh when Kurt tilts his face toward him, hesitant about the mechanics but not about his intentions. Blaine's laugh cuts off immediately and slowly, haltingly, they angle in until finally

( _finally_ )

their lips brush. It's the faintest of pressure, featherlight and chaste and careful, and it is _nothing_ like Kurt's two kisses that never counted. Blaine's mouth is soft and gentle and Kurt decides on the spot that this is the #1 perfect first kiss ever and that no one can convince him otherwise. Incongruously, all he can think of is how Anne Hathaway insisted in _The Princess Diary_ that when she kissed her true love, her foot would pop up behind her, the way that heroines used to kiss in old black and white movies, and now he is comparing himself to a heroine, wonderful -- but he suddenly totally gets it.

(But he is not doing it.)

When Blaine pulls away, he doesn't _really_ pull away; he just separates their mouths by a hair's breadth and says, “I've wanted to do that forever,” his breath ghosting across Kurt's lips. He sounds downright giddy. Kurt's eyes are still shut.

“Why didn't you?” he asks, knowing his voice has gone breathy and not caring.

“You'd been through so much _crap_ , you know?” Blaine says. “You came to me for help and then I wanted to give you a chance to settle in here and figure out what you wanted; trying to make some move when I first met you would have been – gross.”

Kurt opens his eyes and makes a _tch_ sound, tongue against his teeth, and he leans back enough that Blaine's face comes into focus rather than being a too-close blur. Wry: “Thanks.”

“That's not what I mean,” Blaine says, serious, looking right into his eyes, and it should be cheesy but it somehow isn't, and Kurt lets himself sway into him a little bit. And then Blaine ruins it by opening his mouth and starting to talk very fast again. “I wanted to just grab your face and kiss you, but then I thought that was a really bad idea because somebody's done that to you before and I wanted to make sure you had a choice--”

“Blaine,” says Kurt, more patiently than this abject stupidity deserves (though it is abject stupidity that makes him want to hug Blaine until he can't breathe, so it's acceptable). “You just showed up at my room looking like Colin Firth in _Pride and Prejudice_.” Blaine glances down at himself, white dress shirt translucent and plastered to his body under his hoodie, and then laughs. Kurt finishes: “You couldn't be Karofsky if you tried.” Blaine cracks a _completely_ goofy smile.

Several doors down, a lock clicks open; Omid steps out of his room, wearing a jacket with the hood up. His eyes hold on the two of them for a minute (Kurt clutching Blaine's sweatshirt, Blaine soaked and smiling and cupping Kurt's face in his hands) and then he slides back into his room – as if they can't see him – and shuts the door.

Kurt makes a disbelieving, amused sound, shutting his eyes, and Blaine huffs a laugh. “I should--” says Blaine, starting to draw away, and Kurt steps backward and drags Blaine into his room with him; Blaine is shivering under his hands, and probably not, Kurt abruptly realizes, because they just kissed.

“I can't believe you went outside like this,” Kurt says, stepping away and muting the original Broadway cast recording of _Wicked_ , and he and Blaine are plunged into sudden silence. He goes rummaging through the drawer that he uses for linens. It's easier to stop the song that is bubbling up in his throat, and threatening to spill out of his mouth, if he keeps his hands busy. “Did you come all the way from the _library_?”

“Wait, I thought I was Mr. Darcy and it was romantic,” Blaine protests, his teeth chattering, and Kurt throws a towel over his head. He pulls it around himself with grateful fervor, rubbing his own arms. He is dripping all over Kurt's throw rug.

“Mr. Darcy went swimming in slow motion at the height of the English summer,” Kurt says, opening and closing more drawers. “ _You_ went outside in the fresh December freezing rain in Ohio. Wear these.” He hands Blaine the pile of clothing that he has collected, a pair of dry socks on top.

“Wha--” says Blaine, and Kurt steps out into the hall and closes the door on him. He leans back against it, his eyes closed, and he allows himself to open his mouth in shock and then finally begin to smile. The front of his T-shirt is spotted with cold rainwater.

He cracks an eye when he hears a sound. Omid trudges down the hall, shooting Kurt an unreadable look, and then, right as he passes, he holds up his fist. Kurt breathes out silently and bumps their knuckles together.

“Okay,” says Blaine's muffled voice. “I'm decent.” When Kurt swings the door open, they look at each other for a couple of seconds, then Blaine half-smiles and spreads his arms, as if to embrace the awkward and say, _well, what do you think?_ He's wearing a loose pair of yoga pants with a striped henley that strains just a little across his chest, and one of Kurt's oversized cable-knit cardigans. His hair is all zany damp curls.

He looks obscenely good, Kurt decides, but he might just feel that way because he recognizes those clothes as _his_ and there is something possessive in it.

“It's an improvement.” Kurt's mouth curves into a lopsided smile and Blaine smiles back, his face soft -- then he blinks at him as Kurt crosses to his closet. “You need to get out,” Kurt says, plucking a jacket out of the closet and holding it out by the shoulders.

“--What?”

Kurt shakes the jacket impatiently. It is Armani; shearling-lined with a herringbone pattern, one of his favorite old waterproof, warm standards. “Curfew is in three and a half minutes.”

Blaine stares at him for a second, then he says a profound, “ _Crap_ ,” and he puts his arm through the first sleeve and Kurt hurriedly helps him with the other arm, then pushes it up over his shoulders and leaves him to settle it as he goes back into his closet and comes out with a pair of yellow canvas boots.

Blaine shoots the yellow boots a _very_ amused look, but he steps into them and lets Kurt wind a scarf around his neck. Then he grabs Kurt's hands, preventing him from compulsively adding any more layers. “Come on a real date with me,” appeals Blaine. “Friday night, food, not in the dining hall.”

“Okay,” Kurt agrees breathlessly, and Blaine leans in and kisses him again; still close-mouthed but harder this time, less like Kurt might break if he touches him. Kurt immediately, fiercely presses into it and can feel Blaine's stubble, and he's dimly grateful that Blaine is still holding his hands because he thinks they would be fluttering uselessly otherwise. Blaine wrenches himself away and pulls up the hood of his borrowed coat, and before Kurt can give the side-eye to the ridiculous full effect of the outfit, Blaine is saying, “Bye” with a brilliant smile and flinging the door open.

Kurt is left with sudden silence and a neat pile of soggy shoes and clothing on his floor. He climbs up onto his bed and pulls the window treatment aside to peer outside; approximately seven seconds later, a figure in an Armani coat dashes across the quad, and Kurt presses his forehead to the window pane with his eyes closed.

 _That_ , he thinks, smiling so hard that it actually physically hurts, was his first real kiss.

When his iPhone buzzes, he lunges for it.

 _fyi you're never getting these boots back,_ says the text, and Kurt is still laughing (and shaking his head, because hell _yes_ he is getting them back) when the phone rings and he picks it up.

"Seriously," says Blaine's voice. "These are awesome. Plus, Jonathan just totally stole them."

" _Get_ Jonathan's unworthy feet out of my boots," Kurt orders, and it's okay if he thuds onto his back in bed and keeps smiling like he just got out of the loony bin, because there's no one here to see it.

"But my feet _are_ worthy?" Blaine prompts, and Kurt doesn't have to be in the same building to know that he's grinning from ear to ear. Kurt can hear it in his voice.

They talk for three hours, first while Kurt pulls his shit together and hangs up wet wrinkly clothes to dry, and then while he pretends he's skimming the reading for tomorrow's American literature quiz on the Beats but he's actually just letting Blaine tell him all the things he likes about Kurt until he is pretty sure his skin is never going to fade back to its natural color ever again.

Kurt would never wear an ugly red hoodie outside of the sanctity of his room, but just the same, he wonders if Blaine will notice if he keeps it for a while.

* * *

On Monday, Kurt gives a presentation about _On the Road_ and the class applauds politely; no one calls him Bummel after he says the phrase “bum a ride.” After school, Shawn makes the Warblers run "Somewhere Only We Know" until even Kurt deigns to collapse on the undoubtedly filthy chorus room floor with the rest of the tenors, using his boyfriend's chest as a pillow, and said boyfriend – possibly delirious with dance-exhaustion – puts an arm around him and starts crooning, "baby, you can light my fire" as Kurt and a couple other guys laugh, and everyone else groans.

On Tuesday, half the Warblers and several of their girlfriends squeeze into the lounge on Kurt's floor along with most of his hallmates, and they all shout at the _American Idol_ finale.

On Wednesday, Kurt helps finalize poster designs for Pride Week and he talks to his dad for a half an hour, and Carole mentions the idea of driving down to spend the day in Columbus this weekend.

On Thursday, Mercedes sends a flurry of texts during lunch, demanding to know when he's coming home next and whether he's bringing Blaine. Kurt's old jealousy barely even twinges when she mentions that Vocal Adrenaline stopped by McKinley this morning for an intimidation session.

He texts back: _I certainly hope you schooled their asses,_ and Mercedes responds: _you know it baby._ Come hell or high water, the New Directions are _going_ to Nationals in New York this year.

On Friday, Kurt goes to his locker an hour early. By the time the bell rings for class, every square inch of metal is covered by magazine cut-outs and song lyrics and a mirror attached by magnets and cards and, most of all, photographs; his dad and Carole on their wedding day, Blaine's framed class picture, Mercedes and Tina with their arms around each other's necks and Finn photobombing the background, most of the New Directions flushed and beaming after Sectionals (behind the group, Noah Puckerman is drinking something out of a Nalgene bottle that probably broke the terms of his probation), a bunch of hallmates piled up on the spare bed in Kurt's room, Jonathan staring at the camera while wearing a hat made of balloons, Blaine and David and Shawn roaring with laughter at a terrible joke.

Just below Blaine's class picture, there's a Google map with a handwritten note. Someone has drawn a stick figure in a blue blazer alongside an arrow pointing directly to the city of Los Angeles, and the note says, in Blaine's horrendous illegible scrawl: _Nationals 2012._

Kurt steps back to admire his handiwork, and he smiles to himself in satisfaction, and he closes the locker door.

**Author's Note:**

>  **French translations:**  
>  _As-tu besoin d'aide?_ \- Do you need help?  
>  _Mais c'est quoi, ton problème?_ \- Really, what's the problem?  
>  _Tout savoir_ \- Ridiculous attempt at the English phrase “know it all”; seriously, it is terrible. It literally means “all know.” Blaine is shit at French, you guys.  
>  _Peut-être_ \- Maybe


End file.
